


Bloody Mess

by cagedbirdsong



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 01:49:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11613414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagedbirdsong/pseuds/cagedbirdsong
Summary: Inspired by a prompt submitted on turtlesoupstories over on tumblr:“He couldn’t help but to look at her through the mirror, she was trying her best to wipe off the eyeliner and mascara smeared on her face. She was a mess. But she was his mess.”





	Bloody Mess

He couldn’t help but to look at her through the mirror, she was trying her best to wipe off the eyeliner and mascara smeared on her face. She was a mess. But she was his mess.

“Do ye want ta talk about it?”

She sniffled, dignified despite the hiccups, and shook her head, still wiping at the streaks of black beneath her eyes.

He stood up and crossed the floor in two easy strides, resting his hands on her shoulders and kneading gently. The breath went out of her, and she melted against him, her tears momentarily forgotten as her eyes slid closed. “Mm. I shouldn’t have worn makeup to work.”

His lips twitched in a half smile, and he pressed them to her forehead, pressing his thumbs into the muscles at the base of her neck. She moaned slightly, head thumping back against his belly, and cracked open her eyes to peer up at him. They were red and wet, and rimmed smudgy black, but bright and honey colored all the same.

“What happened, Claire?” He regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth. Her eyes fell shut again, and fresh tears prickled at the corners and rolled down her cheeks. She sniffled again, and pushed herself forward to grab another tissue off the counter of the vanity.

“I… I really don’t want to talk about it Jamie. But…” She dabbed gently beneath her right eye, wincing as the tissue came in contact with aggravated skin, and muttered in frustration about the damned makeup.

“But ye have to,” he finished for her, blue meeting gold in the mirror.

“But I have to.”

She sighed, shoulders slumping, and stood up, a mountain of stained tissues abandoned in futility, and touched his fingers as he passed, an invitation and a demand. He followed her into the dark living room, and fetched two glasses from the kitchen as she folded herself on the couch. He filled both, turned to sit with her, and then thought better and reached for the bottle of whiskey, bringing that along as well.

She thanked him wordlessly, and pressed the glass to her lips with trembling hands. She swallowed two large gulps, and then peered at him over the rim, suddenly small and shy. He leaned against her folded legs, one hand on her knee.

“I killed a boy today,” she breathed, so quiet he was barely sure he heard it. Her lips wavered, and she finished her glass, held it out for him. He filled it this time, and set his own glass on the table, his mouth suddenly dry but his stomach twisting. Claire took another gulp.

“I- I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, “but I did.” She breathed deeply, her shoulders rising as she filled her lungs to the point of coughing, and then exhaled in a rush, settling herself for the story like she would settle herself for hours on the operating floor.

His name was Abel Mackey, he was seven years old, and he was suffering from chronic failure of the liver. A genetic flaw, a mistake in his coding, a chance of fate. He had been on the transplant list since he was five and a half, but since his case hadn’t been one of urgency, he wasn’t on the top of the list. His symptoms were treatable, he was generally healthy. There was no rush.

Today had been his seventh birthday. He had told Claire that morning, waved her over and leaned in conspiratorially, a gap toothed grin plastered on his tiny red face. “It’s my birthday today, Dr. Claire. I’m seven years old!” Seven little fingers, held up in front of her face. A smile of her own, so wide her cheeks hurt.

“You are? Happy birthday! What did you wish for?”

Another holey smile, an excited giggle, one little hand cupped by her ear and a whispered voice. “A new liver! So that I can get a bike! My friend Billy got one for his birthday, but Mom says it’s too dangerous for me until I have my surgery.”

“Well,” she smiled back at him, reached out to tug on his nose, “I hope you get everything you asked for!”

She knew his chart inside and out, could open his file in her mind, see each and every page. She had known him for these last two years, had treated him periodically every time something went wrong. She had performed three surgeries after he had begun suffering from ascites - fluid buildup in the abdomen. He had never been this bad.

His disease had progressed rapidly in the last month, more so than Claire thought possible. He had always been an easy bruiser, thanks to his failing liver, but now any little thing seemed to cause flowers to bloom on his skin, and he broke his arm when he tripped on the playground. There had been extensive bleeding, but they had managed to control it, and he sported a blue sling and matching bruises like a little champ.

He got his wish on his seventh birthday, or at least one of them.

“Abel!” Claire poked her head in the door, knocking on the sill, and he looked up from the book he was reading, smiling at her. She presented him with a small package, wrapped with sheets of white printer paper. It was the best she could manage. “It’s not exactly a bike, but…”

He grinned, the tiny remote control car clutched in his hands, and he seemed to vibrate with excitement. “Oh, Dr. Claire! It’s perfect! Can we drive it, can we drive it?!” She couldn’t say no, and so she helped him into a wheelchair, and let him drive his new toy up and down the pediatric wing for a few minutes, his eyes bright as sapphires and his smile rivaling the sun.

“I have another present for you, Abel. Where’s your mom?”

This present was less glamorous, but received with far more joy. Abel’s eyes blew wide and his mouth hung open like a fish, and his mother sobbed, throwing herself into Claire’s arms with a million thank you’s, despite the doctor’s protest that it was really nothing she had done.

Abel Mackey had gotten his liver, and they had taken him in for surgery that afternoon. Claire had never been more excited for a patient. Everything had gone well; perfectly, actually. It was a textbook surgery.  

Until it wasn’t.

They had begun to close up. The liver had pinked up beautifully, and Abel’s vitals were all stable. As they were starting to close, he crashed and coded. A blood clot had migrated through his veins and lodged itself in the heart. It was a complete fluke. His blood had been thin to begin with, and the clot had made it to the left ventricle with no issues. Abel Mackey died on the table, with Claire’s hands in his belly.

Her hands shook now, and she placed her glass next to Jamie’s on the table, lip trembling. “He shouldn’t have died, Jamie. It was a  _perfect_ surgery. No one knew the clot was there - there was no way we could have, and he just - he just  _died_. Right there on the table. It was a mess. It was all just a  _bloody mess_.” Her hands trembled, and she pressed them desperately into his, willing him to stop the shaking. “I walked out of that OR with his blood on my hands and had to look his mother in the eyes and tell her I killed her little baby boy. I  _killed_ him on his seventh birthday.” She looked up at him and her eyes shone, though no tears fell. “All he wanted was a bike, Jamie.”

His heart broke for her, and he sighed softly, drawing her up into his arms as she pressed her face to his chest, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt, remembering the feel of a scalpel in her fist. “There was nothing ye could have done,  _mo ghraidh_. Ye did the best ye could have.”

She sniffled, her tears wet in the crook of his neck, and smudges of black smeared on his shoulder. “The best wasn’t enough.”

She went to pieces in his arms, dissolving into tears again, and he smoothed his hand along her hair, whispering soft, soothing things in the language most familiar to him. She was a mess, but she was his mess, and he would spend every day of the rest of his life cleaning her up if that’s what it took.


End file.
